Night Before Christmas
by TaiKaze
Summary: Sherlock hate him so much he wanted to marry him!


[AN; I don't get emails when people review/fave/sub anymore... I do check the comments on a regular basis, but if you want to be sure I see your message, PM me! And if anyone knows how to fix this, please let me know!]

Sherlock had never hated John as much as he did now. He hated him more then christmas, and that was saying something!

And John had been the one fretting over it too! What if they don't like me? ("They wont.") What if I use the wrong fork? ("You work your way towards the plate John.") What if I spill something on the table cloth? (Everyone will be expecting it, relax.") But there he was, coolest ice-cube in the drink, smiling at his mother and speaking politely to his uncle, looking perfectly at ease in his rented tux.

John was handling christmas dinner at the Holmes estate better then the Holmes themselves. Even Mycroft looked impressed.

Of course, John was a complete peasant, and Sherlock caught all the rolling eyes and the polite smirks, but John didn't bat an eyelash and just kept going. They all seemed to find him faintly amusing, and by the time the main course was served, he had charmed the whole table.

Sherlock hated him so much he wanted to marry him.

"So!" Asked his mother in the wake of the last high-class laughter. "What is life with my son like? And please, don't be shy, we all know what he's like."

Sherlock didn't really know which one of them to glare at, but neither even glanced at him so it was kind of a wasted effort anyway.

"Oh, it's complete hell."

Everyone looked slightly shocked as John, still completely unfazed, put a pice of potato in his mouth like they where still talking about the weather.

"Really?"

One of Sherlocks cousins, Adelle, leaned over the table and giggled. (Making sure her cleavage was well visible, oh how Sherlock loathed her…) John gave her a quick grin and kept going.

"Yeah! He never sleeps, except for when he collapses in the living room for eighteen hours straight. He plays the violin at every odd hour of the night, stuffs the fridge with body parts from the morgue…!"

Now everyone had stopped eating, except John and Sherlock's mother, who where both picking up small bites of meat.

"And as if that isn't enough, he is completely incapable of taking care of himself."

Now John DID look at him, but Sherlock's glare still didn't work.

"I do the shopping and the laundry, cause he simply can't be bothered to remember either. I even have to bend his mouth open and stuff some food in there every twenty four hours just to make sure he doesn't faint in the middle of a case!"

To emphasize his point, John then paused to take a big bite of potatoes and meat. Sherlock didn't look at any of his relatives, just grunted and poked his food. Everyone else around the table snickered quietly and nodded to each other. Sherlock has a new keeper, wonder how long he will last?

Uncle Bradshaw, on John's left, then politely asked about these cases that John and Sherlock worked and John proceeded to tell him about the last one they had been on. He kept it neat and to the point, explaining how utterly brilliant Sherlock was and completely forgetting how important his own involvement had been. Sherlock would have reminded him, if only to piss of the rest of the family, but he still couldn't bring himself to speak.

He was always quiet at christmas. He hadn't spoken a word to these people in years, except for the necessary greetings and such. He was not about to start now.

Then again, he never thought he'd have the guts to bring his partner into this lions den, but there he was, comparing his knowledge about gunshot wounds with Bradshaw, who was also an army veteran.

"So, Dr Watson?"

John turned back towards his hostess, and Sherlock felt a streak of ice run down his spine. His mother was an expert in reading people, she had taught Sherlock everything he knew.

"If my son is so difficult to live with, why do you stay?"

Everyone pretended they weren't listening intently, and since they where Holmes, they pulled it off magnificently.

"Cause I love him, of course."

There was a huge clatter as everyone dropped their forks and choked on their drinks. Even Mycroft, who knew, was a bit surprised at the bluntness in John's statement. Sherlock stared at him with his "shut-up-right-now-or-I'll never-talk-to-you-again" look, making John raise an eyebrow in confusion.

"Oh, sorry. I assumed you all knew…"

Everyone was in shock, well, except mummy, cause she knew as well as Mycroft. She was his mum after all, she knew everything.

Adelle was still coughing from the pice of lettuce she had choked on, Uncle Bradshaw looked absolutely shell-shocked, his wife Emily had her hand over her heart like she couldn't decide wether to squeal or faint. The twins glanced at each other, then leaned away from Sherlock in slight disgust, and grandma Dorothy was giggling like a schoolgirl.

Mycroft smugly wiped his mouth and sipped the wine. His mother just smiled. Sherlock didn't know who he hated the most.

"Well, that's nice to hear. Do you like the wine, John?"

"Yes, I do!"

Then there was an evil glint in John's eye and he turned to Mycroft, still looking incredibly smug next to Sherlock and asked, so fake polite that Sherlock almost thought Joh had tricked him and that he was actually an aristocrat himself.

"Isn't it the same wine you brought when we had dinner at Greg's?"

Mycroft saw the trap, but he couldn't avoid it. His smile stiffened and a nerve under his eye twitched. Sherlock almost laughed.

"Yes, it is. You recognized it?"

John grinned, all unassuming peasant again. Oh he was worse then Moriarty…! Sherlock wanted to jump the table and kiss him. That would probably make his twin cousins sick to their stomachs.

"Couldn't place it at first, but now I do. That was such a nice dinner! You should have invited Gregory along too, he would have loved this! Greg is a wonderful cook, it's a bit of a hobby of his."

Mycroft hummed affirmatively, praying his mother wouldn't ask.

"And who is this Gregory, darling?"

Mycroft didn't glare, he wasn't a child, but John did look incredibly pleased with himself and Sherlock was staring at his boyfriend like he was the most gorgeous thing in the universe. Mycroft sighed and decided to face the bull head on.

"Gregory Lestrade is the DI at the Scotland Yard, mother. He is a friend of Sherlock and I."

"I see. You usually don't make mutual friends, he must be quite special!"

Oh god he hated this. The second he answered, his mother would know for sure. It didn't even matter what he said right now, she would know. He decided he didn't care (if Sherlock could, then he could too) and his smile relaxed.

"He is, mother."

The twins actually groaned, in unison, and rolled their eyes. Bradshaw glared at his sons and Adelle just sighed, like she had given up. John had the nerve to snicker and Sherlock smiled so big his face almost cracked. Grandma chuckled and patted Mycrofts arm.

"You should call him over, if his parents let him. You could all go play in the snow after dinner."

"I think we are a bit to old for that, granny, but I can ask if he wants to come over for new years."

He turned to his mother, ignoring the still grumpy twins. She smiled and nodded.

"Yes that would be lovely dear. Should we take the dessert in the den, perhaps?"

As they all got up, Sherlock practically ran around the table to kiss John, who just laughed and pushed him away, telling him to behave and scolding him for not eating all his vegetables.

Sherlock was gracefully taken away by their mother (before he made too much of a scene) and John and Mycroft ended up being the last ones to leave the dinning hall. Before they entered the den, where everyone was settling in front of the crackling fire, Mycroft gave him a quick frown.

"I will get you for this you know, doctor."

John just grinned.

"Worth it. Now go call Greg over. He probably misses you like crazy."

Then he went inside and sat down next to Sherlock like they had been married for years, continuing his conversation with their uncle. Mycroft sighed, smiled and pressed number one on speed dial.

Christmas dinner was looking to be very pleasant this year.


End file.
